The chasm screamed with wind, its voice wild and endless, roaring between broken cliffs like the breath of fallen gods. From above, the bridge shimmered, not with light, but with something older—pressure, memory, the promise of violence. It arched like a drawn bow, stone laid bare, rune-carved, sloping upward toward the Citadel. The incline was no accident. It was a trial.
At its mouth stood the Stormguard. Iron-clad. Silent. Still. A thousand strong, without banners or names. Ten-man blocks shoulder to shoulder. Each shield a vow. Each line a blade. Their martial path bore no elemental glow, no roaring qi. They followed the Silent Core Path, a doctrine born from ancient flesh and harder stone. Their energy was bound inward, refined by pain, forged by form. Their style was etched in movement: Stonewheel Reversal, which turned force back upon itself; Thousand Weight Pressure, syncing their bodies into one crushing rhythm. Their spears struck in Serpent Wind Form—timed, angled, and perfect. Shields moved under Mirror Edge Doctrine, locking, striking, disrupting. The Gladius Hispaniensis, short and leaf-bladed, flashed in Leaf Saber Form—thrust once, kill once. No elegance. Only finality.
They did not wait idly. Every thirty minutes, the front rotated. Ten-man cells flowed like gears, the weary falling back, the ready stepping forward. Behind them, the reserve slammed shields in rising cadence. Not for morale. For hunger. It was steel thunder, rippling down the stone like a growl. The Zhong legions felt it before they ever saw the Stormguard. And it made their bones shiver.
Behind the Stormguard, two thousand Gale regulars braced. Archers nested on ledges, flankers hid among stone ribs. They had seen the first slaughter. Now they became part of it.
Then the Zhong arrived.
Their advance shook the highlands. Eight legions. Maybe more. War-beasts roared beside talisman-shrouded shocktroops. Fire glyphs flickered. Wind charms burst. Their war engines crawled behind them, dragging ruin. They had bled to reach this bridge. Thousands dead at the cliffs already. Still they marched. Still they believed.
Lord Qiu watched from a high outcropping, seated astride his horse. No throne. No fanfare. Only cold eyes. His armor bore no flourishes. His voice, when it came, was calm. This was his first war as supreme commander. He had once spoken to Altan during a ceasefire, years ago. That memory guided him more than hate. He respected Altan's mind—the cruelty hidden in its precision.
He studied the enemy, noting every pattern: the shield rhythm, the rotations, the unnatural stillness that felt too sharp to be passive. He spoke aloud, softly.
"So this is Altan. Even the stones serve him."
His second-in-command leaned in. "Orders, my lord?"
Qiu took a slow breath.
"Pull the war beasts. They're too heavy. They'll slip. Move light infantry to the west ledge, higher ground. Skybinders for suppression fire. No kills. Just break their rotation. That's the seam."
Another officer approached. "And the bridge?"
Qiu looked at the slope, the runes, the spattered blood.
"It belongs to him now. We don't feed it any more."
He turned his horse.
"Altan," he murmured, "you still fight like a poet with knives."
But his smile was grim.
And I still intend to win.
The Stormguard moved.
A square formed—shields locked, spears forward, gladii tight at the hip. They advanced with no roar, no haste. Only purpose.
The first clash was merciless. The square slammed into the Zhong front like the fall of heaven. Bones broke. Men screamed. The Zhong, built to battle flame and ice, shattered under pure weight and technique. A Stormguard shoulder-checked a Zhong berserker—the man flew, limbs askew, crashing into comrades. Another rammed a spear butt into groin, then shattered his skull with a rising shield bash. There was no emotion. Just function.
Gale regulars followed, clearing wreckage, finishing stragglers. Arrows dropped from the ledges, each with surgical precision. No wasted shots.
Then the slope betrayed the Zhong.
A man slipped. Then another. Blood slicked the incline. One toppled into the line. Footing failed. Formations broke. They shouted, tried to brace. Too late. The bridge drank their chaos. Runes pulsed.
Chaghan saw it first. Glyphs hidden in the seams began to glow beneath the gore. Faintly. Patiently. The bridge remembered. Each death fed it. Not with magic. With purpose.
A Stormguard who should've fallen rose instead. A bleeding regular found strength. Wounds dulled. Focus returned. Not healing. Not power. But memory—transmuted, shared. The bridge gave back what was offered in resolve.
The Zhong reeled. Their talismans fizzled. Their steps betrayed them. Even retreat was impossible.
The Stormguard shifted—another square, another advance. The slaughter became orchestral. Shields cracked ribs. Spears punched eyes. Gladii sliced throats. A Zhong officer screamed and vanished beneath three hammering shields. A warbeast slipped, rolled, and crushed its own vanguard. The Gale flankers struck like knives in the dark. No resistance. Only dying.
Chaghan, nearer the spine of the bridge, noticed something deeper. The runes flared where Altan's palm had once pressed.
He stepped forward. Blood coated his boots. He placed his hand to the stone.
"Remember," he whispered.
The glyphs pulsed in answer.
Far above, Citadel horns rang.
The Zhong broke.
Some dropped weapons. Others fled. Many just screamed. The bridge had become myth—and myths were death.
By dusk, four thousand Zhong were dead. A thousand more broken. The rest vanished into the mist.
The Stormguard returned to formation. They said nothing. They cleaned weapons. Adjusted stances. One helped a regular stand. No words. Just steel and breath.
When the wind settled and night crept in, the bridge beneath them pulsed again. Quiet. Hungering. Remembering.
It would wait.
And the next war would feed it anew.